


I Hate Being Famous For My Hits, And Never For My Misses

by TheSpaceCoyote



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-06
Updated: 2012-07-06
Packaged: 2017-11-09 07:11:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpaceCoyote/pseuds/TheSpaceCoyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave writes a eulogy for a dead boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hate Being Famous For My Hits, And Never For My Misses

 

 

 

It’s not a single, not one of your signature songs, and it’s never gonna make it to the top of the charts. Most people won’t endure through over thirteen minutes of silence after the end of the last track, and even your most hardcore of fans will hear it and think nothing or flee to their blogs and wax poetic on what you were trying to say until their fingers bleed all over their keyboards. 

Most won’t like it, because its not the mainstream middle finger that somehow remains fresh and innovative despite the half dozen platinum hits you’ve already racked up. Some will sing you praises, call the track only another ambitious step in your climb towards musical transcendence, or whatever the  _fuck_  those pseudo-intellectual musical douchebags want to appropriate from your career this time around. 

There’s none of your characteristic vocals in your track, none of your screeching anarchy coupled with samplings from Mulan and My Little Pony that boggles the critics until they have no choice but to call out your genius. 

The track, exactly 4:13 minutes in length because that was his birthday, is devoid of all your usual genre pastiche and “so-ridiculous-its-genius” mashup, and that’s because it’s  _not_  part of the facade you put up in the industry—to interviewers and critics and fans and groupies. It’s bound to confuse them, those who will listen,  because they wont know what to make of it. They won’t understand because they don’t know what it’s like for you to be sincere. The fact that you, bastion of layered irony and symphonic satire are capable of having more to you than just your rational and hyper-paradoxical beat and jam and sample smoothie. 

But you don’t care. Because the song is not for them. 

It’s for you and  _him_. 

You know the samples of bells and harp chords at the beginning are meant to build the foundation of your relationship with him—your childhood days and the small budding feelings of friendship. Reedy flutes with intermittent electric beats to create a slight agitation reflect every time his dad wouldn’t let him play outside, or when he would disappear for a few days. The sudden halt in the classic instrumentals are the one day in fifth grade where you finally found out exactly what was wrong with him. 

The buzz of guitars and the steady bass that start up next weave through your middle and high school years. The screeching chords are the confusion of puberty and the pressures of growing up—they’re school and grades and hormones and bullies and split lips and him cleaning the blood off your brow and cheering you up by asking you if he could listen to your new beats. The hiccups in rhythm are his coughing fits only calmed when you wrapped around him and held him safe and warm against you. 

The bass underlaying the cacophony is both of your heartbeats, yours which sped up whenever you were near him and his that pumped quietly under your ear whenever you settled your head on his chest for extra assurance of his life. 

You know the breakdown of the track’s progression and the shrieking metallic clawing of guitar strings as twisted and tangled as a messed up spirograph is the call you got ten years ago telling you that he was in the hospital and that there was nothing more to be done. 

You know the absence of vocals is for the boy who couldn’t breath and the selective muteness you’d been struck with when you heard the final droning flatline that breaks down the song right after the chorus of electric violins that screams your last moments with him. 

And you know the quiet decrescendo into nothing is the metaphor of your life without him in it. 


End file.
